The American hurried through the crowded streets of Palermo, dodging the young boys who played soccer around him with the ease of a veteran of the sport. As usual, there was business to be done, and he could not take in the charm of the city, it merely passed him by in a blur, the scents and sounds temptations he could not afford to waste time on. He held the briefcase in his hand as if his life depended on it, his knuckles white where they clenched it desperately. He hated this part of his job so much, he could taste it like bile in his mouth. He'd often wished to come back here, on a vacation, with his fiancee, but somehow, his parents would find a way to talk him out of it. Go to Greece, Go to Positano or Capri if you must go to Italy. But stay away from Palermo, they'd hiss, his father spitting and making the sign to ward off the evil eye. If only they knew, his parents, that he was here every month like clockwork. The old man's underlings called him "The American" but he had been born here, in Palermo, and then whisked away to the United States by his parents. The armed guard at the gate nodded him through, and The American went up the steps, the soles of his shoes scuffing on the ancient stone. The villa of the "old man" had been built first by a Roman officer, granted the land by Caesar himself, when Sicily was an outpost of that Empire, and then rebuilt in the Middle Ages by a Norman nobleman who decided to not return to France after the Crusades. Rich mosaics caught the stark light, sending color back from the floors themselves, but this visitor had no time to stand and stare, he knew them by heart, each and every tile. He made his way down the pillared hall and out into the courtyard, where his host sat waiting, sipping the latest of his vinegar production from a small glass.

"So, what do you have to say?" The Old Man said, his voice husky from age and the bitterness of the ruined wine. "Who sees you except for these visits?"

"Not my first choice either, Pappa." The American said, setting his briefcase on the table. "Thanks for the English."

"I like it…it keeps everyone in the house from knowing what you are here for…"

"Whatever makes you happy." The young man said, opening the briefcase. "The Grayson family is dead."

"Buono." The Old Man nodded, putting his glass down on the table. "The beads?"

"Not amongst the belongings of Isabella, Pappa. It was gone." The young man dropped a sheaf of crime scene photographs on the table. "This is insanity."

"Maybe, maybe..." The old man picked up the pictures and sifted through them, slowly, one by one. He looked up, his speckled eyes watery in his tanned face. "There's one missing. Where's the boy? Fredo, the Grayson boy is not here. Where is he?"

"The Grayson boy? Pappa. The father, mother and daughter are dead. How many more? The boy doesn't know anything, hell, the girl didn't either. Their mother didn't know why she was a target. You realize you are getting revenge on someone who has been dead for sixteen years?"

"Revenge." The old man nodded stroking his pristine white shirt. "You say it so easily…like it doesn't mean anything, you know what they did to us..…"

"Christ! Pappa..it means everything. But when does it stop? When do you say that's enough? What do I do? Wait for my rosary? I've been wanting to get married, but I don't dare, Christine keeps wondering…"

"What a baby. In love and that's all that matters..."The Old Man chuckled. "Get Bruno for me. Tell him I have a job for him."

"No, Pappa, I'm done. I'll handle the legitimate business of your American company for you, but I'm done being your messenger boy." Fredo rose, smoothing is dark grey suit in almost the same gesture as his grandfather had done just moments before. "This is why Mom left, isn't it?"

The old man shrugged. "She left. What difference does it make why? Talking so big, such a big shot, right? Marry your girl, Fredo. Send me a picture, I'll have a mass sung here for you. But tell Bruno I want him here. Then you go free. Tu sentire?"

"Yeah, Pappa, I undertstand. You want Bruno. You want the Grayson kid dead. I have another problem. There's someone else who's vanished into thin air…" Fredo closed his briefcase. "I hope he stays missing, too."

"Find them. That's all. Use your expensive brain to find out where they are. Who could it be?" The old man picked up his cordial glass of vinegar, sniffed it and saluted his grandson with it. "I know where everyone is. I'm not worried."

"Yeah, of course." Fredo shook his head. "It's Gianni, Pappa. Gianni is loose and alone in America. How long do you think it will be before he starts looking for this kid himself? It stops being a matter of picking them off one by one when they are together."

"Gianni, he's a moron. He'll get himself killed and spare me the trouble. Find that Grayson boy. Worry about him, the little mongrel." The old man waved dismissively at his grandson. "Oh, and go see your Nonna. She's still angry I didn't keep you here last time until she got home from mass. No decent food was put on this table for a month. Go. I can't stand another month of that junk she brought in from….how do you say it…MacDonnas?"

"McDonald's" Fredo grinned, thinking of his grandfather staring down a BigMac every night, instead of the beautiful fish fresh from the Mediterranean that he was used to. "I'm going." He took his briefcase and kissed his grandfather on both cheeks. "Goodbye, Pappa."

"Ciao, Alfredo. Safe trip back to America…tell your mother to come visit soon…" The old man returned the embrace and sipped at his vinegar, listening to Fredo's footfalls grow fainter. Gianni Ludovici, loose in America. Bruno had better explain how that particular end came undone, and have a plan to tie him back up.